Secrets of a Proper Countess

by Lecia Cornwall

  Jane waved to the footman to pour out a cup of tea for her stricken mistress, but Honoria pointed to the brandy decanter at Charles’s elbow. The footman poured a small glassful, and Honoria gulped it.

  “Blackwood is going to marry a duke’s daughter?” Honoria cried. “He seems to have the devil’s own luck, that man.”

  “He is the devil,” Jane interjected, and Isobel shot a quick glance at her. Jane’s mouth was set in hard lines of scorn.

  “Charles, now you must convince Lady Miranda to marry you!” Honoria insisted. She picked up the invitation from the table and waved it again. “We will both accompany Isobel. Lady Augusta can hardly object. Isobel is in deepest mourning, after all.”

  Isobel’s heart sank. Not only would she have to face Blackwood, but she would have to do it under Honoria’s watchful gaze.

  “I’m not going,” Charles said peevishly. “I don’t want to.”

  “But Charles!” The warble of dismay in Honoria’s voice quickly hardened to iron. “I must insist. You must marry and set up your nursery as quickly as possible. If anything were to happen to the boy, you would be earl, and an earl needs an heir. You must safeguard the Ashdown title.”

  The teacup slipped from Isobel’s nerveless fingers, but she ignored the clatter. She looked at Honoria’s ruthless face as she talked about the death of her only grandson.

  “What could happen to Robin?” she croaked as terror squeezed her breakfast back up her throat.

  Jane, Charles, and Honoria turned to look at her, their eyes cold, as if they were discussing a stranger instead of her son. She clenched her fists, forcing herself to sit still, not to scream and race for the nursery.

  “What could happen to Robin?” she asked again, unable to think or say anything else.

  “Children die all the time, Countess,” Jane said. “Most wives breed more than one son.” She smirked at Isobel, as if pointing out her failure to do so.

  Honoria folded her arms over her vast bosom, her eyes returning to her own son. “Charles, you will attend—”

  But Charles shot to his feet, tipping over his teacup as he rose. The brandy flowed across the white linen like blood.

  “I said no, Mother. It seems plain enough that I’d need the title first in order to marry bloody Miranda Archer. Go to the damned musical evening yourself, if you think it will do any good. I see no point in making a fool of myself any further.” He glared at Isobel, as though it were her fault, and she braced herself to bear the brunt of his rage, but he turned on his heel and left the room.

  Honoria watched the door for a moment, as if she expected him to come back. Even Jane looked surprised.

  Honoria sniffed at last. “Jane, write a note of acceptance to Lady Porter-Penwarren at once. Tell her I will accompany Isobel.”

  Jane scratched the reminder on her list. “Anything else, your ladyship?”

  But Honoria had already turned to her. “Isobel, I am disappointed in your efforts on Charles’s behalf. When do you expect to have an opportunity to speak to Lady Miranda or her sister again?”

  Isobel clenched her hands in her lap, trying to still the trembling, her heart still caught in her throat for her son’s sake.

  “I have no outing scheduled with Countess Westlake today,” she managed. Honoria narrowed her eyes, and her lip curled dangerously.

  The unspoken threat was clear in her mother-in-law’s eyes. There was only one way for Charles to be earl. This time, Isobel knew, she would not lose something so trifling as an outing in the country with her son. This time they meant to take Robin from her forever.

  She wondered if Charles was capable of killing his own nephew to get what he wanted. Panic rose, and she forced it down.

  “What do you suggest we do about this?” Honoria demanded.

  Isobel’s brain raced. “Perhaps you might consider sending Lady Miranda a bouquet of flowers from Charles,” she suggested, surprised at how calm she sounded. The posies would end up on a dung heap, but Honoria need not know that. The gesture would buy her precious time.

  “An excellent idea. Jane, see to it,” Honoria said.

  Isobel listened to the scratch of the pencil on the paper, panic rising, threatening to drown her.

  She needed help, and she knew who she had to ask.

  Chapter 28

  Marianne and Miranda arrived at Blackwood House just in time to catch Phineas coming home as the sun rose. He’d obviously been out all night, since he was unshaven and still in evening dress.

  Marianne didn’t miss the fleeting look of irritation on his face as she sailed across the entry hall toward him like an attacking frigate, but she’d caught him, and there was no way he could instruct Crane to say he was not at home. He glanced at the clock, then back at her in surprise. She was well aware it wasn’t a suitable hour for paying calls, but this couldn’t wait.

  “You look dreadful, Phineas,” she scolded, instead of saying good morning.

  “You, on the other hand, look lovely,” he said sarcastically, eyeing her fashionable bonnet as if it were the silliest thing he’d ever seen. “Coffee, please, Crane,” he ordered. “I’ll escort the ladies to the salon.”

  Miranda slumped onto the nearest settee. She looked as tired as Phineas, worn-out by the endless social whirl, the late nights, and countless parties a debutante had to endure.

  “Are you on your way in or out?” Marianne asked her brother indelicately, though she knew the answer. “No wonder you sleep until afternoon. I assume you are regularly out all night doing unsavory things like seducing widows and teaching orphans to cheat at cards.”

  “Seducing widows?” He looked at her sharply. “It’s a little early for you as well, isn’t it, Marianne? I believe the fashionable hour for morning calls starts at three. You’re seven hours early. Did you come specifically in the hope of catching me misbehaving?”

  “Adam is routinely up by six,” she countered. “I breakfast with him every morning. I came early because I wished to see you before Carrington gets up. He, I believe, rises by nine.”

  “That’s because he’s in bed by ten o’clock every evening,” Phineas muttered. “What did you want to see me about?”

  She pulled off her gloves and gave him her sweetest, most beguiling smile. “I have a favor to ask you, dear brother.”

  His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And what might that be?”

  Crane entered with the coffee tray before she could reply. “I’ll pour, Crane,” she said impatiently, and waited for the door to shut behind him.

  “I wish to speak to you about Isobel Maitland.”

  Was it her imagination or did he suddenly turn a dreadful shade of green? She poured a cup of coffee and passed it to him. He ignored it, his gaze fixed on her with disturbing intensity.

  “What about her?” he asked in a dark voice she supposed was meant to be a warning that he would rather discuss anything but dull Isobel.

  She raised her chin stubbornly. “I know you’ll think I’m interfering in things that don’t concern me. Adam certainly does, but I can’t help it. Isobel is a wonderful woman, and she deserves to be happy.”

  “And she isn’t? Perhaps that’s because she’s a widow, still in mourning. One can hardly expect her to be jolly,” he said blandly. Too blandly. She grinned, and he quickly picked up his coffee cup and hid behind it, but it was too late. She’d seen the spark of curiosity in his eyes.

  “It’s been two years since Robert Maitland died. It’s time Isobel went on with her life, found another man.”

  He put the coffee cup down with a clatter. “She wishes to remarry?”

  He looked horrified by the very idea. Marianne bristled. How unjust of him to find Isobel unworthy of love because of her appearance! “No, but that doesn’t mean she couldn’t take a lover.”

  “Marianne!” Miranda gasped.

  “A lover?” Phineas repeated stupidly. He looked as shocked as Miranda.

  “Yes, a lover,” Marianne said. “Perhaps with the righ
t man, she’ll consider marrying again, once she sees—remembers—how pleasant it can be to have a man in your bed.”

  “Great-Aunt Augusta would be scandalized to hear you talking like this, Marianne!” Miranda said breathlessly, but her eyes kindled with delight. “Do you have someone in mind? He’d have to be a very boring gentleman, used to the company of very dull ladies.”

  Phineas rose to splash whisky in a glass and swallowed it in a single gulp. Warning bells went off in Marianne’s mind. Was he thinking she’d come to ask him to fill the position, so to speak? She pressed her hand to her lips to suppress a giggle.

  “Not you, Phineas,” she said bluntly. “You’d be all wrong for Isobel. I was thinking your friend Gilbert Fielding might do nicely.”

  “Gilbert Fielding!” The shriek came from Miranda as she leapt to her feet to glare at Marianne. Her rabbit fur muff tumbled to the floor and sought sanctuary under the settee.

  “Fielding?” Phineas asked calmly, but his eyes were cold and hard, his jaw tight.

  She forged ahead. “Yes, why not? He’s handsome, personable, discreet—”

  Phineas’s “He’s leaving for the army in a few weeks” and Miranda’s “He’s looking for a wealthy wife” came out almost at the same moment.

  Marianne smiled. “Then that makes him doubly perfect! After a brief affair, he will be conveniently gone, unable to spread gossip if he’s so inclined. On the other hand, Isobel inherited several properties from her uncle, I believe. If Gilbert marries her—”

  “He can’t!” Miranda squeaked.

  “Why ever not?” Marianne demanded, peeved at the objection. She had expected Miranda to be her ally. Archer women were champions of love, especially when it involved secrets and matchmaking. They lived for such opportunities.

  Miranda had gone red and was blinking back a shimmer of tears. “Perhaps there’s another lady Mr. Fielding prefers. Perhaps another lady cares for him.”

  Phineas ignored Miranda’s tears. “Have you spoken to Gilbert about this, Marianne?”

  Marianne laid a hand over her chest dramatically. “I? I’m a lady, Phin! I can hardly go around making indecent proposals to gentlemen, now can I?”

  “Adam would lock you up.”

  “Of course he would! That’s why I came to you. You are experienced in delicate matters like these. You could ask Mr. Fielding without the slightest embarrassment. For all I know, you do this all the time for friends in need. I only need you to ask him. After that, I could make all the arrangements for Isobel to—”

  “No.” He threw the word at her like a dagger.

  “No!” Miranda cried.

  “No?” Marianne blinked at them both. “How can you say no? I thought you were a champion of illicit romantic encounters, Phineas!”

  He looked more angry than hurt by her cutting assessment of his character. “I am not a procurer, Marianne. Gilbert Fielding’s love life is his own concern.”

  Marianne’s smile slipped. The idea that Phineas might refuse to cooperate had not occurred to her. “A simple introduction, perhaps—” she tried.

  “No,” he said again, even more sharply, and held up a hand as she opened her mouth to object. “This discussion is over, Marianne.” He sounded almost as prim as Adam.

  “Then perhaps you know another gentleman who might do? Someone equally handsome and discreet?”

  His eyes burned like coals, searing her. “Does Isobel know you’re doing this? Did she ask for your help?”

  “Good heavens, of course she doesn’t know! I am doing this out of the goodness of my heart. I can’t bear to see anyone unhappy, including you, Phineas. Have you found a bride yet? I could help you next.”

  He didn’t answer. He merely crossed the room and opened the door of the salon and stood beside it. “No,” he growled again, this time through gritted teeth.

  “No to what?” Marianne persisted. “Helping Isobel or finding you a bride?”

  “No to continuing this conversation. I need a bath and sleep, if you don’t mind. You can stay and wait for Carrington if you wish, but I’m going upstairs.”

  Marianne rose to her feet and glared at her brother. “Come, Miranda, it appears we’re being dismissed,” she said, stung. She paused to placate Phineas with a kiss on the cheek. “If you’re meeting Adam today, I trust you won’t repeat any of this to him?”

  “Wild horses could not torture it out of me,” he muttered coldly.

  “Will you at least think about Isobel’s plight?”

  He didn’t answer her, but there was an odd look in his eye before he flicked his gaze away, a hunger, or maybe she was mistaken and he just wanted breakfast and sleep.

  Miranda advanced on her brother. “Don’t you dare say a word to Mr. Fielding either, Phineas!” she commanded, her chin in the air.

  He gave Miranda a gentle smile and touched her cheek, wiping away a tear. Marianne frowned. Obviously, her sister was also exhausted and overwrought. A nap was in order there too.

  She sailed toward the front door. How foolish her siblings were being! Anyone who didn’t know them better might think they were jealous.

  And of what exactly? They could always count on her help too, later, once she’d assisted her friend.

  Marianne pulled on her gloves and stepped out into the soft morning sun, her mind already turning to other ways to help Isobel find a lover.

  Chapter 29

  “Ah, Blackwood. You are perusing the selection of young ladies, I see,” Carrington said.

  Phineas was standing in Augusta’s salon, waiting for the evening of aural torment to begin.

  “Lady Amelia and her parents will be here tonight,” his grandfather continued, scanning the room, nodding to the ladies already gathered. They gazed back hopefully, but their eyes were on him, not the duke. Phineas felt a prickle of warning shimmer up his spine.

  It looked like every earl’s daughter, every peer’s unwed sister, was here tonight. His grandfather’s grin confirmed it.

  “Amelia sings rather well, I’m told. Nice to have a wife with talent,” Carrington hinted. “She will be performing tonight, along with Augusta’s famous soprano, and that violinist she admires. In fact, there are a number of talented and eligible young ladies who intend to sing or play the pianoforte.”

  “I’ve heard Lady Amelia is being courted by Colonel Lord Hollister, and Lord Henry Morton, and the Earl of Silcox,” Phineas said. Carrington’s smug expression slipped a little.

  “Yes, but I daresay Welford would accept your suit above theirs. Amelia’s an obedient girl, biddable. That’s a sterling characteristic in a wife. She’ll marry where she’s told to, and you need only say the word.”

  The word was no. Phineas had no interest in marrying Lady Amelia or any of the other debutantes that Carrington had invited for his benefit. In fact, he had decided not to marry at all.

  After Marianne’s unsettling visit, he had spent the rest of the morning wanting to kill Gilbert Fielding or any other man who might take his place as Isobel’s lover.

  By midday the realization that he couldn’t manage to turn his thoughts to anything besides Isobel had put him in a bad mood, made him irritable and restless. He couldn’t afford to be so constantly and completely distracted by a woman.

  He’d taken out his annoyance on everyone around him. Burridge bore the brunt of it as Phineas dressed for Augusta’s musicale. Phineas had rejected the first four cravats his valet offered, though there was nothing wrong with any of them.

  As Burridge tied an artful knot in the fifth cravat, Phineas came up with a solution. He would ask Isobel Maitland to become his mistress.

  The arrangement would be formal, and exclusive.

  He immediately felt better, but still went through three waistcoats before he chose one. As Burridge presented each garment with exaggerated patience, Phineas realized he was nervous, anxious to have her answer.

  Once she’d agreed, he would find a private place and let her rip the damned waistcoat to shreds.


  In the morning he’d rent a discreet house for their trysts.

  As his valet helped him into his black evening coat, he realized there was a chance she’d refuse him. Only at first, of course, and it would be only a token resistance to soothe her sense of propriety. He could be very persuasive. A kiss, a lick, a caress in the right place, and he’d have her. Still, he decided, it was better to be safe. Once he had arranged for the house, he’d visit the best jeweler in Mayfair and buy her something shiny as an enticement.

  He watched as Burridge brought out his evening shoes and gave them a final polish. Phineas had never seen Isobel wearing jewels. He had no idea what she might like.

  Pearls were right for a widow, but too staid for a woman as passionate as Isobel.

  Diamonds would make him appear too eager.

  Emeralds were too showy, the kind of stones a mistress flaunted in public, with her lover as a mere secondary accessory.

  No gem shone with as many colors and facets as Isobel’s eyes. He’d seen them glazed with passion, glittering with fury, and glowing with love when she smiled at her son.

  Burridge cleared his throat and held out the shoes, waiting. Phineas put them on, and picked up his cloak, gloves, and hat. After seeing about the house and the jewels, he’d visit the modiste who made naughty little nothings of lace and silk for London’s most alluring courtesans. He’d order a dozen. No, two dozen. Such delicate fripperies were likely to tear easily in the heat of passion. He nodded to Burridge as he placed his hat on his head and checked his appearance in the mirror. He made a mental note to order extra buttons for all his breeches from now on.

  As he settled himself in his coach, Phineas frowned. His investigation of Charles Maitland could be a problem. Isobel might not like it if and when they had to arrest Charles for treason. By then, of course, their interest in each other might have cooled.